


Lock & Key

by pocket_infinity



Series: King's Fall [1]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Imprisonment, black egg will do that to you, except in flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocket_infinity/pseuds/pocket_infinity
Summary: The time has come for the Black Egg Temple to be sealed and the infection contained, once and for all. It is naught but a matter of action for the sake of the future. For the sake of Hallownest.
Relationships: The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Pale King
Series: King's Fall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017610
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Lock & Key

**Author's Note:**

> this was written out of Spite for Orza so forgive me if the quality is perhaps not my finest

Above and before all else, it was dark. A darkness so oppressive, so suffocating, that it overwhelmed the senses until they shut out the sensation in shock, rending it so that, if one wasn’t careful, they may not even notice as it crept in bit by agonizing bit.

The Pale King thought himself careful.

What a temple he’d built, formed of smooth crystals of void with naught the floor and bits in the ceiling framed by Soul—his own Soul—to prevent contamination, both to be used later—before “later” turned to “now,” at least. So he stood there at the entrance, floor below him glowing with well-crafted runes; the Dreamers should have been in their places. Two were likely already dreaming. Herrah was hopefully finishing her goodbyes to her daughter (she deserved the extra time if she was not, though).

He found himself pulling in a gasp, all air apparently vacant from his lungs as he blinked back to the present. He pushed it out in a smooth exhale with a smoother flap of the wings following close after. The Hollow Knight beside him, staring straight ahead just as it had when he’d ordered it to stop.

“Walk forward with me,” he commanded, setting his first foot into the temple’s grounds. A shiver ran through his body.

It stepped with him, replicating every movement without so much as a twitch in any other direction. There was no echo from either’s steps, no sound from the King’s breathing. Not even the Vessel’s armor made a sound (in truth, it did, but only the Vessel seemed to notice). The wyrm clicked his claws against each other; better to have some sound than none. The two came to a stop—Vessel before King—just outside an inner chamber.

“Go to the center,” rang out the command, and the Hollow Knight did as instructed, turning and facing him as it came to the middle (even without command, it would have one last look at its father).

“Nail in the ground,” he continued, and the words were obeyed.

“Now… steal the plague from this land,” the Pale King finished.

The Hollow Knight bent forwards slightly, the sound of faint whispering filtering through the air before a wave of orange bent around the king. His robes billowed forth towards the Vessel, the whispers turning to a distant screech barely plucking at the corners of his mind as the storm coalesced around the Knight. It bent, twisted, lashed out, and recoiled against the force, only to be pulled on harder. The Pure Vessel shivered, clinging to the goddess even as she screamed within its mind, railed and fought against its pull. But it was void and she was not, so her loss was set before the battle’s beginning.

And so she lost, being held as a bright spark in the Vessel’s chest with nothing to cling to for a moment—but only for a moment. Despite all appearances, despite all actions, the Vessel was alive, and all living things felt. Thus, the Vessel felt for something, and it felt for its father, felt the vague, fleeting,  _ stupid _ craving for a hug or a hand or just a simple “You’ve done well.”

That proved to be all she needed. The Vessel’s eyes clouded with orange, its body spasming as the wyrm took a step back before it leapt towards him. He tumbled back, falling onto his lower arms as he brought his upper pair up in front of him, claws already shining. For not a moment did his eyes break contact with the Pure Vessel’s, even as it was bound in chains of his own making and hoisted away from him, coming to dangle from the ceiling.

He came to his feet, staring up at the Vessel as it thrashed in its bindings while the anchors for the chains sank into the ground. The orange drained from its eyes, bit by bit, as the two stared at each other.

His ultimate achievement, a vessel truly hollow and without emotion. The product of an abyssal sea and divine creation. The void-cursed object of Wyrm and Root together. The… the spawn of him and his wife, hollowed out by nothing incarnate. Eyes so very like his. A height so very like hers.

His child.

His child, left to rot and perish until nothing was left. His child, so alike so many others but chosen for their apparent hollowness. One of a hundred, a thousand, a  _ million _ little souls left screaming in the depths sealed off below his kingdom, innumerable little creatures tossed aside before they even got the chance to experience anything at all; one of two beautiful things to scramble to the top, desperately clinging to what little bit of life he hadn’t yet stolen from them, only for the other to be left behind, scrambling with everything they had left to just  _ hold on _ before falling when he could have taken them with him— _ should _ have taken them with him.

A few steps, a few steps and a hand was all it would have taken for him to rescue the second and perhaps with  _ two _ he could have known, perhaps with  _ two _ he could have had a chance to realize what he’d thrown away.

The Pale King stepped back, one foot after the other, breaths caught in his throat as he stared up. For once, he saw that it wasn’t the void staring back. It was him. Flesh and blood all his own, just as real—

He turned and ran. 

Glyphs and runes ignited under his feet until he’d finally crossed the boundary of the temple’s door, and with the wave of a hand, it sealed behind him. He stood in silence, panting, before staggering back and leaning up against the wall, slowly sliding down until he was seated. Eyes unfocused, mind exactly nowhere, heart still pounding, he sat, all hands clasped and shaking around his half of the Kingsoul.

Tears began to roll down his cheeks with none to bear witness.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :))
> 
> and for Orza, specifically: _this is what you get >:)_


End file.
